Unknown ak-3

by Mari Jungstedt

  Consequently, the night turned out a lot different than he had expected. Instead of enjoying a dinner with a bottle of good wine and having a romantic evening with Emma, he was left alone with the children for the first time. There's no problem with Elin, but what the hell am I going to talk about with an eight-year-old? he thought a bit desperately as his stomach churned with hunger. He put Elin in the baby buggy, which stood in the hallway, and she promptly started to howl.

  "Just for a little while, sweetie," he assured her as he felt the first signs of a headache. In the fridge he found a plastic bag with something he guessed was marinated chicken breasts, but he had no idea what to do with them. There wasn't much else. The same thing with the freezer. What were they going to eat? They had to have food. He took out a little plastic package containing breast milk and put it in the microwave to thaw it out. He called Sara but got no response, so he picked up Elin and started walking through the house to look for her. Johan had met Sara and Filip several times for brief periods, but Emma had always been present. Right now he felt awkward and unprepared, and the fact that Elin was bawling nonstop didn't make the situation or his headache any better. To top it all off, the puppy kept leaping around his feet. Johan was terrified that he might trip over the dog and drop Elin on the floor. At the moment his brain had stopped functioning. He couldn't for the life of him remember the name of the dog.

  Finally he found Sara under the table in the living room.

  She didn't notice that he had found her, and for several seconds he didn't know what to do. Then he leaned down so that he was almost lying under the table with Elin in his arms. The dog was so delighted that he could hardly restrain his joy. He eagerly licked Johan and Elin all over. Elin started howling again.

  "Hi," Johan said to Sara, who made a big show of covering her ears.

  What a great start. After a long workday, he didn't have even a drop of energy to deal with a screaming baby, a hysterical puppy, and a recalcitrant eight-year-old-and all on an empty stomach. He was the type of person who couldn't wait too long to eat. If he did, his blood sugar would drop drastically, and he would be in a terrible mood.

  But he now realized that he would have to put himself and his own needs last. He tried asking Sara whether there was a pizzeria in Roma. She just kept her hands pressed over her ears. Then he put the screaming Elin on Sara's lap and let go. Instinctively she took down her hands to hold the baby.

  "Hi there. I'm hungry," said Johan. "I was thinking of ordering a pizza. Would you like some?"

  She didn't answer.

  "You're so good at holding Elin," he said. "Do you like having a little sister?"

  She gave him a suspicious look but didn't say a word.

  Johan started to stand up.

  "Well, I'm going to call and order one, at any rate. I want one of those luscious calzones with a big Coke. What do you like? Capricciosa, with ham and mushrooms?"

  "No," replied Sara. "Hawaii, the one with pineapple."

  "So that's what I'll order for you. Could you hold Elin while I make the call?"

  "Okay."

  Sara was looking a little happier.

  "Then we can take the baby buggy and go get the pizzas," said Johan. "Do you think you could push the buggy?"

  "Sure, I can do that."

  "Good. Then we'll take the dog along so he can have his walk."

  "Her walk. It's a girl dog. Her name is Ester."

  "What a cute name," lied Johan. "I can take Elin now. I'll just change her diapers and give her a little milk before we go. Could you set the table in the meantime? I don't know where you keep your plates and things like that. I'm just here as a visitor. Should we watch TV while we eat?"

  "Okay." Sara's face lit up. "Mamma never lets us do that," she said. "Pappa doesn't, either."

  "Well, I think we can make an exception today," said Johan. "Now that it's just you and me and Elin."

  "And Ester."

  "Right. And Ester. Has she had her dinner yet?"

  "Yes, Mamma fed her before she left."

  "That's good. At least one of us has a full stomach."

  Except for a faint murmuring from the TV, the house was quiet when Emma came through the door two hours later. At first she was alarmed, but the feeling passed when she peeked into the living room. Johan was sitting on the wide sectional sofa, leaning back and snoring with his mouth open. In his arms sprawled Sara and Ester, sound asleep. Elin was asleep in the crib, which Johan had rolled into place right next to him.

  SATURDAY, JULY 31

  Knutas had promised to go out to the country on Saturday, but by lunchtime he could already tell that he didn't have the peace of mind to drive off and just do nothing. So far the lead with the hotel project hadn't panned out. Both Jacobsson and Wittberg were going to spend the weekend doing some more digging; they had volunteered to work. Knutas realized that he needed to do the same. He called Lina to explain. Her parents were visiting from Denmark, so they still had a full house. She assured him that they would manage fine without him.

  He put on another pot of coffee and petted the cat while he waited for the coffee to finish brewing. He eyed the yellowing lawn with displeasure, thinking that he needed to water it that evening. In terms of the Martina Flochten case, it felt as if they still hadn't made much progress. He was going to talk to Gunnar Ambjornsson as soon as he arrived home from his trip on the following day. Knutas decided to put aside any consideration of possible connections and just concentrate on Staffan Mellgren. If his wife wasn't the killer, then maybe his relationship with Martina didn't have anything to do with the murders. The police might have gotten too fixated on that particular lead. He decided to completely ignore Mellgren's love affairs as he reconsidered the case.

  What else was there in Mellgren's life that might make someone want to kill him? He needed to find out more about the man. He tried calling Mellgren's wife at various phone numbers but didn't manage to get hold of her. She probably wanted to be left in peace after all the upheaval. He would try to phone her again later. Instead he tried calling the college, but no one was there to answer on a Saturday. Knutas leafed through his notes about the excavation leader and found the phone number for Aron Bjarke. Maybe he knew something more. He'd been well aware of Mellgren's love life, after all, and he seemed quite candid and talkative.

  It turned out that Bjarke was at home. He lived downtown on Skogrand, inside the city walls, and they agreed to meet there.

  "I'll put on some coffee. We can sit outside in the garden," said Bjarke, as if he were planning a social event.

  Knutas decided to walk. A fresh breeze was blowing, so it wasn't unbearably hot. He left his jacket at home. He walked through the South Gate and continued along Adelsgatan. It was only a few minutes past ten, and most of the shops had just opened. For the time being the town was deserted. He crossed Stora Torget, where the stall owners were setting out their wares, getting ready for the day's transactions. The contrast with the nearby ruins of St. Karin's Church from the thirteenth century was quite striking.

  Aron Bjarke's house was small. Shims had been installed to make the door align properly. The windows were so low that it was only a few inches from the windowsill to the street, where roses had been planted outside the house. The archaeology teacher was apparently a gardener.

  Bjarke opened the door after the first knock; there was no doorbell. Knutas had to stoop as he stepped inside in order not to bump his head. The ceiling was low and the interior quite drab.

  On his way out to the garden in back of the house, Knutas cast an inquisitive glance at the kitchen. It was bright and old-fashioned, with white wooden cabinets, a small drop-leaf table, and blue-and-white — checked curtains. Various knickknacks were lined up on the windowsill. The living room had the same low ceiling, with rustic beams. All the pieces of furniture were antiques.

  "What a nice place," commented Knutas. "Are you interested in antiques?"

  "Not especially, as a matter of fact. I inherite
d most of them."

  They sat down in the small garden. A coffee tray was already on the table, and Bjarke poured without asking Knutas whether he'd like to have any. He had put some little chocolate macaroons on a plate, to serve with the coffee.

  "I'm actually here to talk about Staffan Mellgren," Knutas began.

  "Is that right? It's certainly terrible, what happened, completely incomprehensible. It's frightening that a student and then a teacher have been murdered. It makes you wonder if you're going to be next. Everyone is probably thinking the same thing. There's a great sense of uneasiness among the teachers and the students at the college."

  "I can understand that," said Knutas curtly.

  All week long, frightened and angry people had been calling the police-college students' parents who felt their children's lives were in danger, the Business Association, which was worried that the tourists would be scared off, and what seemed like everyone affiliated with the college, all on the verge of collapse when they called to demand that the police find the murderer immediately. Of course it was understandable, but the police had better things to do than function as a crisis call center. He sighed at the thought and met Bjarke's eye.

  "How well did you know him?"

  "Quite well, you might say. We worked together for years. For the past five years at the college, and before that at Hemse Folk High School, which was previously in charge of the archaeological excavations."

  "Did you also meet socially?"

  "No. He had his family, after all. Four children and everything. We lived very different lives."

  Bjarke smiled and stuffed a macaroon in his mouth.

  Knutas studied the middle-aged man sitting on the other side of the table. He was casually dressed in shorts and a polo shirt. Friendly, bordering on ingratiating. Knutas had a feeling that Bjarke, in spite of his amiable and open demeanor, was very lonely. He found himself wondering about the man sitting across from him, even though it was Staffan Mellgren he wanted to ask about.

  "Good coffee," he said to break the silence that had settled in. "You told us before about Mellgren's love life, and you seemed very well informed. Was it common knowledge that he was romantically involved with his students?"

  "Unfortunately, I'd have to say that there were quite a few people who knew about it, at least among the students that attended Mellgren's classes. These are college students, of course, so we're talking about adults. I know that the head of the college thought it was inappropriate, but there wasn't much she could do. It was also a sensitive issue. Mellgren was very talented and respected, both as a teacher and an archaeologist."

  "Didn't anyone ever complain?"

  "I think people chose to turn a blind eye. He was married, and he and Susanna kept having one child after another. I don't think his colleagues really knew how to handle the whole situation."

  "How about you?"

  "Staffan and I knew each other professionally, but we didn't discuss our personal lives. I never told him what I thought about his behavior. Maybe that was stupid, now that we're sitting here with the facts in hand."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I think we can assume that his murder has to do with his infidelities. At least that's what my colleagues are saying at the college."

  "Do you know of anyone he used to socialize with when he wasn't working?"

  "Not really. I don't think he spent much time with any of his work colleagues. Maybe he realized that people were aware of what he was doing and he felt ashamed. I have no idea whether he and Susanna had other friends."

  Knutas left Bjarke's home

  SUNDAY, AUGUST 1

  The call came just as Knutas was nodding off on a deck chair out in the garden. He had spent the whole morning at the office without making any headway. By lunchtime he gave up and went home. He made himself an omelet and then went to sit outdoors, where he dozed off. He had only managed to sleep for five minutes before the phone rang. Startled awake, he picked up the phone.

  "Hi, it's Jonsson out here at the airport."

  "Yes?"

  "We're out here, Ek and I, to meet Gunnar Ambjornsson. His girlfriend is here too."

  "Yes?"

  Knutas could hear how impatient he sounded.

  "He's not here."

  "What?"

  "He wasn't on the plane from Stockholm like he was supposed to be."

  "Are you sure that you didn't just miss him?"

  "All three of us have been standing here the whole time. He couldn't possibly have slipped past us."

  "What about the plane from Marrakech? Was he on board?"

  "We don't know. We haven't checked yet."

  "See that you do. Right away. Call me back as soon as you find out."

  Knutas got up and went to the bathroom to splash cold water on his face. Where the hell was Ambjornsson? Had he decided to stay in Marrakech?

  When he came out the phone was ringing. Jonsson had been amazingly fast.

  "He was on the plane from Marrakech. He checked in and went to the gate and showed his boarding pass, so we can be absolutely certain that he was on board. He must have disappeared somewhere between the international and domestic terminals at Arlanda airport in Stockholm. He never checked in for the Visby flight."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Yes, yes, I'm sure. I checked with the airport staff."

  "How could he just disappear like that?"

  "I suppose he changed his plans. Things like that happen."

  Knutas leaned back in his chair to think. Had Gunnar Ambjornsson suddenly decided to stay in Stockholm?

  That was actually quite possible. Maybe he'd met someone on the trip who made him want to stay in the capital. Although, considering everything that had happened, it was disturbing that the man had disappeared.

  Knutas punched in the number for the Stockholm police.

  MONDAY, AUGUST 2

  The weekend had turned out far better than expected, and Johan was feeling happier than he had for a long time when he arrived at the office on Monday morning. He and Emma hadn't done anything special. They had taken long walks, cooked good food, and relaxed in front of the TV. Just like a normal family. What he had enjoyed most was being able to spend time with Elin, both day and night. Waking up with her in the morning, feeding her, dressing and undressing her, changing her diapers. He realized how much he missed taking care of his daughter. Even though he had enjoyed the weekend, it also meant that he was going to make new demands. He was no longer going to agree to be shut out. If Emma didn't want him to move into her house, she would have to accept that he occasionally took Elin home with him.

  One reason he felt so good after the weekend was that the first evening with Sara had gone rather well. He felt renewed hope that he might be able to function as a stepfather. He was looking forward to seeing both Sara and Filip again.

  As usual, he started the day by talking to Grenfors in Stockholm. For a change the editor thought that Johan could take things easy if nothing special was going on.

  Johan started by cleaning up his cluttered desk.

  Pia drove off to get the car washed and serviced. In the meantime he went through all the piles of papers, throwing out most of them and putting the important ones in file folders. Dust flew everywhere. The place needed a good cleaning.

  His attention was caught by a newspaper clipping from Gotlands Allehanda that had to do with the bold burglary at the Antiquities Room a few weeks earlier. Because of the two homicides, what would otherwise have been a big story had been virtually overlooked.

  He called the police and asked to speak with the officer in charge of the case. He was put through to Erik Larsson. Johan told him what he was interested in.

  "We're working on the burglary, but I'm sorry to say that we haven't made much progress," said the officer, sounding worried.

  "Do you have any suspects?"

  "I can't say that we do."

  "Any leads?"

  "Nothing that has made it possible for us
to catch the thief."

  "This type of burglary-has it happened before?"

  "Not from the Antiquities Room, no."

  "What can the perpetrator do with that gold armlet he stole? It must be hard to fence something like that."

  "Either he'll keep it for himself, which is not very likely, or he'll sell it. We think this was a commissioned job, meaning that he already had a buyer. It could be a collector, maybe somewhere abroad. We know that Gotland's relics are often sold on the international market."

  "What would that sort of armlet be worth?"

  "Impossible to say. A collector could pay practically any amount. When it comes to coins, we usually say that an unusual silver coin in good condition from the Viking Age is worth around ten thousand kronor. So you can imagine what someone could get for a whole treasure trove with hundreds of coins. We know that there are hoards of silver that haven't been excavated yet. On average, one cache is still being found on Gotland every year."

  "But why is so little being done about these thefts?" asked Johan in surprise. "It's not right that so many artifacts should keep disappearing from here without anyone reacting!"

  "Of course we try to find the individuals who are stealing relics, but it's not easy. To be quite honest, I think one reason for the passivity of the police is that the perpetrators-if, contrary to all expectations, the case even gets to court-are given sentences that have virtually no impact. They're judged under the laws having to do with cultural relics. The sentences are so light that the police don't think it's worth spending a lot of energy on catching felons who will be back on the street after only a few months."

  "Do you feel the same way?"

  "I didn't say that, but it's difficult to track down these sorts of thieves unless you catch them in the act."

  Johan thanked the officer and ended the conversation. He had been promised an interview within the next few days. He wanted to do some more checking on the thefts before he did a story. He called the switchboard at police headquarters and asked for a copy of all the police reports that dealt with ancient relics or archaeological finds during the past few years. The records clerk promised to fax over the reports as soon as possible. She didn't think there were more than ten at most.